


Brass Onion

by chestertonwhoknows



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Gen, M/M, References to the Beatles, rooftop vandalism, slandered odobenidae
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 10:59:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19333192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chestertonwhoknows/pseuds/chestertonwhoknows
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley get drunk on a rooftop. Things deteriorate from there.





	Brass Onion

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to the lower_tadfield LJ community in 2008.

“I! Am! THE WALRUS!”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” Aziraphale made another half-hearted grab for Crowley’s trouser leg, but its owner was already dancing away. “Now would you please get down from there before you break something less entertaining than just your voice?”

“Rubbish,” croaked Crowley. “Got wings, haven’t I?”

“As if you could even tell your buttocks from your back, the state you’re in.”

“I’m sure you’d be happy to lend a hand if it came to th—are you all right?”

“Quite,” coughed Aziraphale, inexplicably crimson. “Whereas _you_ are obviously pissed as a second-hand mattress. Don’t you think it’s time you had a nice lie-down?”

“I have no need for lying down. My dear deluded associate, fish _don’t sleep_.”

“Well,” muttered Aziraphale. “Lots of other things to do lying down.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I said, I believe the walrus is a mammal.”

“You,” cried Crowley, personally affronted, “don’t know what it _means_ to be a mammal.”

And he took one last, long drink and swung the bottle off into the night.

They listened as, four seconds later, it obliterated the windscreen of a passing car.

“You bastard,” said Aziraphale, shocked. “There was at least two gulps’ worth left in there.” He took hold of Crowley’s coat tails and dragged him down from the ledge, fully intending to smite the ever-loving Chianti out of him.

But the Enemy, being devious, leant the whole of his drunken weight backwards and crashed into Aziraphale with something that sounded ominously like a bone breaking.

“What just happened?” asked Crowley, instantly sober and on his feet.

“I think,” said Aziraphale sheepishly, mending the spine of a pocket Bible, “we buried Paul.”


End file.
